Page 62 of The Me I Left Behind

Her mother stared at her, hands on hips. “Well?”

“I… I guess I won’t go.”

She turned away.

Her mother went to the back door, opened it and waved, then yelled. “She’ll be right out.”

“Mom! Why did you say that?”

Her mother rushed forward, closing the distance between them, her voice raised. “Just go. You love your little slutty outfit so much, wear it. You’ll get some attention all right. Isn’t that what you’re after? I’m sure all the boys are going to look at you now. Of course, the girls will just laugh. I hope to hell you do not embarrass me in front of my friends. Now go, get on out to the car. Don’t make them wait. That’s rude.”

Mary Margaret felt the sting of tears but sniffled and pretended they weren’t there.Fake it, Mary Margaret. She’d learned a long time ago to fake things and sometimes the feelings just go away.

Be who you want to be, not who you are.

Heading out the door, she tugged the bandana from her head and stuffed it into her back pocket. With every step she took toward the car, her stomach knotted.

1994

She’s angry.

And if she knew anything, Mary Margaret knew how to watch her step when her mother wasout-of-sorts.

They stood at the kitchen sink doing dishes, her mom handwashing them, while she dried and put them away. The dishwasher was broken. Mom had been pissed for a week because her dad hadn’t gotten around to fixing it.

The water sloshed in the sink, her mother’s hands frantically swiping over the plate, turning it over and washing on bothsides. She placed the plate under the hot water flowing from the faucet, then handed the wet plate over.

Mary Margaret took it and dried it off, adding it to the stack.

Her mother stopped washing. She stood, looking down. Staring down. The dirty gray dishwater swirled in the sink while random bubbles spun along for the ride. Her mother’s hands gripped the side of the countertop and Mary Margaret could see the tiny red veins on her knuckles, just under the thin skin turning white with her grip.

At once, her mother called out in anguish, pushing away from the sink, flinging water, drying her hands on a tea towel, and throwing it across the room.

When she turned and looked at her—when Mary Margaret met her gaze and looked deep into her eyes—she saw the turmoil.

The question. Frustration. Anger.

“Mom, what’s wrong?” She kept her voice low, quiet.When Mom is in a mood, keep things low key.

Her mother twisted away, pacing back and forth in a tight circle. Her agitation was not unusual—Mary Margaret had seen her this way before—but today she seemed distressed. She did not know why.

Pointing her finger, her mother took one big step toward Mary Margaret.

“I’m going to tell you this, and you better listen to me. When you get a chance to get away from here, do it. Leave. Don’t think about me, or your daddy, or Jack. Don’t think about none of us. Just get out of this damn town. Out of this fucking house. You understand?”

Her mother exhaled then, as if letting go of a seriously enormous burden.

The thing was, it felt like it landed on Mary Margaret’s shoulders.

She’s telling me to leave? I’m only fifteen!

Her therapist had askedher once, “Do you see any correlation between the two—your mother and Max?”

It took a minute for Maggie to understand what she meant back then. Today, she could see it plain as day. “I’m not sure,” she’d told her. “Say more.”

“Both crave control. They want, need, to control you. Different reasons, but it’s still control.”

“How so?”

---